Salome
by Missie2
Summary: Quatre accepts a mission, but where is he? 3+4 mentioned, warning for Innuendo, nothing really serious, slight violence. R+R please.


Salome.  
  
  
Missie here. Finished My Sweet Quatrina, will be working on a new fic and the sequel, as well as The Cathach. Here's a little one-shot to keep you going. Irish weather is unpredictable, it's frigging roasting out here! No warnings, except for slight innuendo.  
  
  
  
  
The latest mission for the Gundam pilots was in, and it was an unusual one. One of them was to assassinate the leader of a top secret militia group on the night of a social gathering of all the leading nation's representatives. What was even more unusual about this particular mission was that Quatre had accepted it.  
  
The banquet hall where it was being held would be heavily guarded and if Quatre were to be caught, he would immediately be executed. Trowa was more than a little worried.  
  
" Let one of the others take it! I don't want you to get caught."  
  
" Who says I'll get caught? I have a plan."  
  
" What if it fails?"  
  
" Trust me, it won't. Now go, or you'll be late."  
  
  
  
The other pilots were sent to the banquet as invited guests, and lead to their seats on the oblong table stretching across all sides of the room. Trowa couldn't find Quatre anywhere, and started to panic near the end of the evening.   
  
All of the female guests had left earlier on, but the men had stayed, with a promise of "entertainment." All seated, with the mission's target across from them, the pilots wondered what had happened to Quatre. Suddenly, the room went dark, and a spotlight lit up a figure standing alone in the middle of the room.  
  
A belly dancer, dressed in red and gold wisps of material and white satin pointe slippers began to sway with the exotic music that filtered into the silence of the room. Her face was hidden by a veil and yashmak, but absolutely no one would have been paying attention to her face anyway.  
  
The soft, sultry music began to pick up the pace as the dancer whirled around the room, balancing perfectly on the pointes with the flimsy costume skimming around her alabaster skin like smoke. She pirouetted sharply and the skirt flew up to reveal her beautifully curved legs, drawing a collective gasp from the men in the room.   
  
She continued to spin as if weightless around the room, red overlapping gold, gold overlapping red and the music reached a crescendo as she leaped into an arabesque, creating an explosion of color and motion.  
  
Smiling under her yashmak, the dancer removed a silk scarf from around her waist, slowly and provocatively. The pilots could hear several undisguised gulps, one coming from a careless Duo. The dancer approached one of the men in the audience and leaned across the table to him. His glasses started to fog up. The girl drew the scarf across his face, his arms, his head, his neck, then quickly whipped it away and tied it around her waist. The man released a sigh.  
  
She continued this with several of the men, each time using a differently colored scarf. She even came to Trowa, brandishing an aqua colored strip of silk. Trowa found himself getting very turned on, not just by the dancer but because the silk scarf reminded him of Quatre. If he could find Quatre later on, they'd be in for a hell of a night.  
  
The dance was coming to a close, and by now Trowa was certain that most, if not all of the men in the room were hard. It certainly looked like it. The dancer drew a black scarf from her slender waist, and approached the pilot's target.  
  
She wrapped the scarf across his neck and pulled him in close to her, then proceeded to pull the scarf from the left, to the right, and drew it in a full circle around the man's neck before whipping it off, fixing it around her waist again, and finishing the dance with a multi colored flourish. Before the lights could come back on, she whisked herself out of the room.  
  
Mutters and appreciative groans filled the room, but the pilots were irate that the evening had ended and Quatre hadn't completed his mission. Suddenly a loud shout cracked in the room.  
  
" Senator Rybcynski is DEAD!"  
  
He certainly was. Slumped in his chair, a perpetual grin on his face, and a throat cut from ear to ear. Quatre HAD completed the mission! But when? No one had seen him all night. They debated it on the way home. Duo fumbled with the keys of the safehouse, and threw the door open, talking the whole time.  
  
" Man that was one weird night! How did Quatre...WOAH!"  
  
The pilots gaped. The belly dancer was seated on the couch in the living room, still clad in the red and gold costume and white satin pointes, but without the veil and yashmak. Quatre crossed his legs, covered with wispy silk scarfs and aimed a filthy grin at Trowa.  
  
" Mission accomplished!"   
  
  
  
  
Hands up who saw that coming a mile away? I need practice, dammit!  



End file.
